


Bitter Fingers

by tastethewaste



Category: Rocketman (2019), Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Seriously there's a lot of angst and hurt/comfort in here, and it's pure, two men who love each other in a non-romantic way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 00:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20023276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastethewaste/pseuds/tastethewaste
Summary: Elton's upset after visiting with his Dad for the first time in many years, and Bernie's waiting for him when he gets home. Sure, it was hard to see his Dad with his new family but he's fine...he's always fine.





	Bitter Fingers

The car pulled away from the outside of Stanley Dwight’s home, and Elton’s hand was pressed to his mouth as he tried desperately to stifle the tears that wanted to come. He jammed his eyes shut, unable to stop envisioning his father with those boys-his _brothers_ -sitting on either side of him. Elton wrenched open the drawer underneath his seat and pulled out a bottle of scotch, took a long drink.

“Home, Mr. John?” the driver asked timidly, looking at him briefly in the rearview mirror.

“Yes, please, Dennis. Thanks.” 

Their arms had been so casually thrown around him, their bodies leaning against him as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Elton’s stomach had dropped, seeing them like that, as if it was an everyday occurence to come home and cuddle up close with their father. 

They probably did it all the time. Elton took another drink, unable to stop his mind from filling in the blanks of what he hadn’t seen. 

_His mind is filled with pictures of Stanley, making sure that he was home from work in time to meet his sons coming home from school. Stanley laying out biscuits on a plate and pouring two glasses of milk. The boys coming in, kicking off shoes and rucksacks and jackets, squabbling with each other while Stanley breaks up the fight and pushes a snack on them. The three of them cuddling on the couch together, Stanley’s arms around his boys protectively, asking how their day was. Laughing at their jokes and tickling them._

Elton rolled the bottle over on the seat and held his head in his hands, rocking back and forth slightly. _Get out,_ his brain screamed, and his throat burned with the effort of trying not to scream. 

“You...okay, Mr. John?” Dennis asked in a concerned voice. 

Elton hastily wiped away the few tears that had escaped and straightened up in his seat. He sniffled slightly, and stared stonily out the window. He retrieved the scotch and tucked it quietly back into the drawer underneath his seat. This would not break him. He would not let it. 

“Fine, Dennis. Sorry.”

He chewed on his bottom lip, watching as buildings and cars rushed by the window. He tried to force his brain to go blank, to wipe the slate clean. His life was no different now than it had been before he’d left to go over there; nothing had changed. He was still _Elton John_ , international superstar, intoxicating showman, a multi-millionaire by the age of 25. He was doing just fine in life, just fine indeed. This changed absolutely nothing.

So if he was Elton, then why did he _feel_ like fat little Reggie Dwight from Pinner, the shy boy who had so desperately craved his father’s love and approval? Why did it feel like he’d been throttled 20 years into the past?

_I bet he helps them with their fucking homework._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time Dennis pulled smoothly into the driveway, Elton’s body was vibrating with tension, and he sprang from the car as if he’d been tightly coiled the entire time. He pushed his way into the house, singular thoughts on his mind. He would fix himself a drink or five, and then he would crawl into bed. He wouldn’t leave for days if he could help it, he’d ignore John’s calls and tell the staff to let no one in. He’d suffer the consequences later. He strode quickly across the foyer, through the living room and into the kitchen, hell-bent on those drinks.

“You look like you’re on a mission,” a voice called from the living room, and Elton stopped in his tracks. He spun on his heels and saw Bernie, casually stretched out on his sofa, a cowboy hat tipped low over his eyes, looking as if there was no place else on earth he belonged.

“Bernie.”

“As you live and breathe,” Bernie said, sitting up and adjusting his hat so it sat neatly on the top of his head. 

“What are you doing here?” Elton asked sharply, and Bernie narrowed his eyes just slightly. 

“We were supposed to try to write some stuff today, I’ve...got some lyrics here,” Bernie said quietly, holding up an all-too-familiar brown envelope and walked across the room, handed it to Elton. 

“Oh, that’s right. Sorry, mate. Bit distracted,” Elton said quietly. “You want a drink? I can get you one,” he said, walking into the kitchen as Bernie followed. 

“I’m alright, it’s the middle of the day, I--” 

“It’s been a shit day, alright, Bernie? I’m sorry if that irritates you but I need a drink before we get started, yeah?” Elton poured a few fingers of whiskey into a glass and drained it, poured another. 

Bernie said nothing, just watched in silence. After a few moments, he cleared his throat. “Listen, Reg, I can just...go, alright? We don’t have to work today.” 

Elton groaned quietly. “No, Bern, don’t go, I’m sorry. We can work. What’ve you got?” Elton took the sheets of paper from Bernie and the two made their way down the hall to Elton’s music room, where his expensive piano resided. The two bantered about the lyrics for a few moments, and then Elton sat down at the piano, started plucking away. 

“Think I’ve got something,” he said, and a tune flowed out of him, notes and melodies crashing from the piano like a sonnet. 

After a moment, Bernie laid a hand gently on Elton’s shoulder, interrupting him. “It’s beautiful, mate, but...that’s the tune for _Daniel_. Can’t use it, obviously.” 

Elton frowned up at Bernie and played a few more notes, and realized Bernie was right. “Shit, you’re right.” He played another few notes, recognized the tune for _Yellow Brick Road_ , and did the same in turn with several of his other songs. There was simply nothing original in him that day, nothing that wanted to come out, and he was suddenly filled with rage. “ _Fuck!_ ” He yelled, slamming his fists onto the piano keys, a cacophony of notes squealing out all at once.Bernie jumped, not unaccustomed to Elton’s bouts of rage but startled nonetheless. Elton stood up from the piano bench and threw himself on the expensive sofa that lay against the other wall of the room. 

The notes faded slowly from the air, and Bernie crossed the room, kneeled in front of his friend and laid a tentative hand on Elton’s shoulder. “Reggie, are you alright?” 

Elton had tossed his glasses off and thrown his arm over his eyes, breathing heavily and taking in big gulps of air. “Fine.” 

“I don’t think you are, bud, not in the least,” Bernie said softly, shoving Elton’s legs aside and making room for himself on the sofa. “What happened today?” 

Elton began to chew nervously on his bottom lip again, and then muttered, “I saw my Dad today.” 

Bernie sighed gently. He knew about Elton’s history with his parents, of course. It had been one of the many things they’d talked about on their long walks through London at the beginning of their friendship. The moonlight on the streets had seemed to embolden Elton, and he had told Bernie all of his anger and frustrations about his father and the many ways he had tried to ruin him. Bernie knew Elton hadn’t seen the man since he was a child, and the news that he’d gone to see him threw him back a bit. 

“That must have been rough. What brought that on?” 

“John thought...he’s worried that reporters are going to ask my parents about certain...proclivities I might have. Certain leanings. John wanted me to clear the air so that if he was ever asked anything, he would be...discreet.” Elton waved his hand lazily in the air as he finished talking. 

Bernie nodded slowly. “And how did that go?” 

Elton looked at Bernie with an impassive look on his face. “Lovely. We had a short chat, I met my two younger half-brothers-lovely lads-and I signed a record for him. It was very civil.” Elton had left out the soul-crushing nature of this visit on purpose. Bernie didn’t need to know the way his heart had caved in when his brothers came running into the room, the way his stomach had dropped when his father asked him to sign a record for a bloke he worked with, the way his brain shut down when he saw his father pick his brother up and joke with him as they went back towards the house. 

No one needed to know. It was unnecessary. 

“That doesn’t sound _lovely_ at all,” Bernie said snidely. “Your dad’s got other kids? That must’ve been fucking awful to see. And he made you _sign_ one of your _records?_ What the _fuck?_ ” Bernie said exasperatedly. 

“Okay, it may not have been perfect but he’s doing well, my Dad, and it’s...great. I’m really happy for him,” Elton said. 

Bernie studied Elton’s face for a moment and said, “You don’t have to put on a face for me, Reg.”

“No face, Bernie.” 

“I know how bad your father hurt you. That doesn’t just go away, and seeing him like this must’ve really hurt,” Bernie said softly, reaching out and touching Elton’s hand gently. Elton jerked it away. 

“Time heals all wounds. All of that crap was in the _past_.” Elton said calmly, but Bernie could tell he was growing flustered. 

“Clearly it doesn’t heal everything. You came in here like a bat out of hell, looking for booze, and you can’t even distinguish one of our tunes from something new in your brain. You practically smashed your piano to smithereens. Nothing good is going to come from you bottling up how much this _hurts_ , Reg, because I can tell it’s hurting,” Bernie said earnestly. 

Elton glared at Bernie. “What do you want from me, Bernie? So my father left us after Mum cheated and he never asked after me again, so what? I’m a grown man, I can’t let that shit bother me forever! My father found solace in a woman who wasn’t my mother, and so he found a way to be a great dad to two other children, so what? I think that’s...I think that’s wonderful, Bernie, that he figured it all out for them and got it together, they’re lucky and I think it’s great--” 

Suddenly Elton was crying, his face buried in his hands, his elbows resting on his thighs, his whole body shaking with the effort of letting it all out. He was small Reginald Dwight again, crying in his room with the visions of his father walking away, but the visions behind his eyes were different this time. This time, all he could see was the painful glimpse of what could’ve rightfully been his, the love that _should’ve_ been his, but never was. He felt lost, and little, and as utterly unlovable as he’d ever felt. 

Bernie was rubbing slow, small circles on his back, the pattern repetitive and comforting, and then he was throwing his arms around Elton and holding him tight. Elton grabbed onto Bernie with ferocity, his fingers holding on tight to Bernie’s thin t-shirt, twisting into the fabric. He cried like the small child he’d been, and Bernie didn’t try to stop him. He didn’t tell him to buck up, or to shrug it off. 

“‘S okay, mate. I’m here. Let it out.” Those were the only words Bernie muttered, quietly, comfortingly, into his ear, a small piece of permission that had been denied his friend for so many years. A few more minutes went by, and Elton’s wails turned to a quiet, steady, sob, and finally to small, crying hiccups.

“It was _me_ , Bernie, it had to have been, if he can love those boys and he hated me, then it had to have been me,” Elton snuffled into his best mate’s shoulder. “It had to have been me.” 

Bernie shook his head angrily. “Look at me.” 

Elton took his head off of Bernie’s shoulder and looked at his friend. “What?” 

“Listen to me. _It was not you._ ” Bernie said sternly. “D’you hear me? You are brilliant, and talented, and smart, and you deserved to have your Dad love you more than anything. Even if you _weren’t_ all those things, you would have deserved it. He’s the one who’s messed up, Reg, not you. Not you. Got it?” 

Elton stared at Bernie with wide eyes, his cheeks tear-stained and his eyes red-rimmed and puffy. He nodded slowly. 

“I oughta find that prick and…” 

Elton laughed, a strange sound to his own ears. “Easy, killer.” 

Bernie grinned at him wryly, then leaned forward and kissed Elton on the forehead. “Go make some music, you beautiful bastard.” 

Elton nodded and walked back over to the piano bench and sat down. He warmed up with some scales, played through _Daniel_ , his favorite sad song, and then began to pluck the keys again, finding a sound for the lyrics Bernie had presented to him. 

As he played, Bernie watched and marveled in wonder, unable to believe, as it went so often with him, that this was his best friend. This talented marvel of a man. 

He just didn’t know if Elton would ever believe what a marvel he truly was.


End file.
